Shame
by notesofwimsey
Summary: Response to marialisa's Blame. Flack was only trying to be a friend. But whose friend does he end up being?


_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY._

_Spoilers: up to and including the preview for episode 4:13 "All in the Family"_

_A/N: This story is a response to marialisa's angsty and beautiful __**Blame**__, posted 19/01/08. She wrote the tune, so read that first; this is merely my riff on the topic._

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Shame

He knew he should be ashamed of himself. Hell, he _was _ashamed of himself – came from all those large nuns with hard hands he grew up around. Shame was a landscape as familiar to him as a New York City skyline.

It didn't start out that way. Seriously. When he went around to see her the first time, he had no intention of bird-doggin his best friend's girl. Shit, he'd stopped thinking about Lindsay in that way as soon as he had picked up on the vibe between her and Messer in the wine cellar. Danny looked almost himself again – that was one good clue that things were better since Linds had come back from Montana. He couldn't keep his eyes off her, and she couldn't keep her hands off him. It didn't take a fucking genius to work out things were heating up.

And he hadn't needed a blow-by-blow description of the escapade on the pool table either. Unfortunately, Danny Messer's brain on drugs was a dirty place to be, and Flack had been the one on Messer-watch the night he had come home from hospital with his broken fingers bandaged. He'd been forced to listen to every detail before the drugs finally put Messer down for the count, leaving Flack a little churned up and not sure he could ever look a pool table in the face again.

The fact that Danny had been waxing poetical about a girl and not merely channeling Penthouse Forum had been mildly disturbing to the man who had acted as wingman on Messer's sexploits for years. Still, all good things came to an end, and it wasn't like Flack needed to pick up Danny's leftovers. He did perfectly well by himself, thank you very much.

And in a weird way, he was happy for Messer. Danny was a good guy, and Lindsay was … well, let's face it, Lindsay was a sweet little kid from the sticks and if she made the city-smart back-alley tomcat happy, who was Flack to argue? He didn't hang out with them much; a guy can only take so much billing and cooing until he puked, but he was happy for them.

And then the Sandoval kid got shot and Danny took it hard. As hard as if they were blood, as if it was his own kid lying on that steel table. Harder because he felt guilty: trust Danny to think he could have changed anything. Hardest of all because the mother had turned on him – first when Danny told her, then again in the church. Then there had been the whole scene in the street – the sight of a distraught woman with a gun in her shaking hand was enough to give Flack nightmares.

So, Danny had pulled back, shut people out. Fair enough – he could understand it. Hell, he'd done the same thing himself a time or two. Would do it again, he knew – when things got bad, sometimes the pain was so big it just choked everything else off.

So the first time Linds had called, trying not to cry, asking if he had seen or heard from Danny, he had gone over just to make sure she was okay. He was used to being a shoulder to cry on – being a big brother, it was a requirement of the job. And if he had liked being her hero a little too much, taken a little too much pleasure in making her smile, in keeping her from crying – well, fuck. He'd never claimed to be a saint. Sister Peter Maria would certainly agree with him on that.

Two weeks. For two weeks he'd been the one to pick Linds up after work and make sure she ate. For two weeks, he'd been the one she called when she couldn't sleep, or when she needed to talk. For two weeks, he'd listened to her talk about Montana, about her family, about coming to New York, about anything and everything but Danny. They'd grab a sandwich in a café (no more eating food from street vendors – Flack could feel the bile rise at the very thought of the filth he'd seen when going after that murderous chestnut-hawker). He'd buy her something healthy and watch her eat and make her laugh and try to dispel the sorrow he could see in her eyes, a dark drift of hurt that remained no matter what he did.

If it took Danny two weeks to clue in, well, that was just perfect wasn't it? Two weeks. Normally, Danny would have caught on to someone sniffing around his lady in a New York minute. Normally, Danny would have kicked someone's ass for just looking at his lady.

And if that made Flack feel even guiltier – the fact that Danny was too deep in his own personal shit pile to even _notice _ - well, all Mrs. Flack's blue-eyed boy could say to that was _Mea Culpa. _Guilt was at least a familiar stomping ground.

He'd seen him. On the street, standing with a cup of coffee steaming in one hand and a blue murderous haze steaming over his head. Seen his best friend watching as he took a girl in his arms and hugged her. And he hadn't stepped back. Nope. If anything, he'd hugged Lindsay a little longer, a little harder than necessary. Hugged her and watched his best friend march away like a good little soldier, heart's blood dripping from a thousand cuts to the soul.

And he could tell himself it was for Danny's own good. He could tell himself that sometimes meatball surgery was the patient's only chance. He could tell himself that he had only been cruel to be kind.

But the smell of her had filled him, and the sensation of her sweet curves against him had burned throughout the day and he knew, if he were honest, he knew that he had taken one step too close to the fire and now he was permanently branded.

When Danny had shown up that night, when it had all been explained and forgiven, Flack had walked away, head held high, eyes clear, wry smile pasted on for the world to see.

And if he had drunk himself into a stupor for two nights running, calling in sick for the first time since catching a load of shrapnel in his belly, well, who was to know but him?

Him and his nun-ridden, guilt-driven conscience?

He hadn't ever had any intention of stealing his best friend's girl. He hadn't ever had any intention of falling in love with her. And in another couple of days, or months, or crates of beer, it would all be in the past. All be a distant memory. All be tucked away someplace.

A place called Shame.


End file.
